


Self-Destructive Tendencies

by fractalsinthesky



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, Drunk Sex, Hate Sex, I mean it's slightly more complicated but the Dep/John stuff is decidedly not positive, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Other, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 10:26:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20241331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalsinthesky/pseuds/fractalsinthesky
Summary: The fight against Eden's Gate has been long and bloody with little discernible progress for the Resistance. It's a lot of pressure and Rook isn't handling it well, but they've been shutting down attempts by their friends to talk it through. Sharky's not confident in his ability to help with words, but his good intentions expose something worse than he'd expected.





	Self-Destructive Tendencies

**Author's Note:**

> I think I covered everything in the tags, but if you think something should be added, please let me know.

He first noticed it a few weeks ago, and when he mentioned it to Grace and the others on a stopover at 8-Bit, most of ‘em seemed to agree that Rook had been acting strangely for a while. Talking less. More prone to long stares into the distance when they were on the move, or into the fire whenever they made camp. Smiles came less frequently, and they joked less often—when they did, they tended to be self-deprecating and very dark. They wouldn’t wake him up until much later than his scheduled watch, which he’d appreciated at first, but as the bags under their eyes grew more and more like bruises, he’d volunteered for the first shift, so he could make sure they got some rest. Whenever they got lucky at the river or on the hunt and the night filled with the rich smells of roasting fish or venison, he often caught them giving most of their portion to Boomer.

He assumed it was another case of the general malaise that was common among the Resistance. Wasn’t exactly a party, watching friends and family die or turn against you, seeing the places you loved stolen and destroyed, and knowing that no help was coming from the outside world. Rook hadn’t grown up here, but folks had latched onto them as a beacon of hope, clamoring for them to do a whole laundry list of stuff nobody else seemed capable of getting done, some of it important, some of it petty, but all of it inevitably dangerous. Besides, ranging all over the county, seeing the full scope of horrors enacted by the Project and being specifically targeted by the batshit Seeds that ran it would take a toll on anybody. 

So he’d done his best to help. Cracking jokes and telling stories in downtime, pestering them to finish their meals, doubling down on the compliments whenever stealth wasn’t a priority, pushing for rest whenever they found a relatively secure campsite. 

He didn’t try to talk to them about whatever was going on. Nick had brought it up once, but they’d shrugged off the gentle inquiry and the next morning they’d told him to head home and check on Kim. Hurk had been more straightforward, asking ‘so what the fuck’s been up with you, Encyclopedia Brotannica?’ and they’d gotten real quiet, then stomped off into the darkness without a word. They hadn’t answered the radio that night. The morning fog had burned off and the sun had risen over the mountains by the time they came crunching back through the underbrush, and calmly told his cousin that his rocket launcher would be of better use in defense of the marina.

Hurk got the hint, and so did Sharky. No talking about it. That’s fine, that’s fine, he could work with that. He was great at not talking about his problems. So when he cleared his throat over the fire a couple nights later and they shot him a warning glare, he’d just shaken his head and pulled a handle of tequila from his pack and a couple of joints from his pocket, and they’d sagged in gratitude. 

It’d gone well at first. He got them to laugh, really laugh for the first time in a long time, and he’d been pretty proud of himself. They passed the bottle back and forth, talked about movies and food—normal stuff—and it was fucking good. Like the early days. Between the conversation and the booze and the pot and the fire, it felt like a miracle, and when the light in their eyes became something furtive, something lazy and hungry, he was too grateful and relieved and crossfaded himself to question it.

“Feel like messing around, Boshaw?” they whispered in his ear, breath hot, a finger already hooked in the vee of his hoodie.

He shivered, grinning, pulling them over him in response and reaching up under their shirt to marvel at the slide of their muscle and the heat of their skin. They smiled back and stripped it off, grinding languidly against the stiffness in his jeans as they helped him shed his sweatshirt and the stained tanktop beneath. Firelight flickered over bruises and scars, and he kissed them softly, the happy buzzing at the back of his skull guiding him to celebrate his friend’s body, show them with his love how much he truly appreciated their drive, their passion, the resolve and compassion that pushed them to fight so hard while the pain and fatigue mounted up against them. They squirmed ticklishly, threading strong fingers through his hair and tilting his head up, directing him towards a nipple.

Eager to oblige, he latched on, sucking and swirling his tongue over their areola, blindly fumbling at their jeans while they freed him from his.

“Bite me,” they ordered, not bothering with his boxers and pulling his dick through the front window, gliding their palm over his head and giving him a few uneven strokes. He winced at the shock of it, but canted up into their hand because it had been forever since he’d been touched by another person and it felt incredible.

He pinched their nipple gently between his teeth and drew back, one hand caressing the other side of their chest while the other traced its way up their spine. 

“Harder,” they said, eyes dark and glittering when he looked up. They settled gingerly over him, knees planting on either side of his hips, sinking down deliberately, and fuck, they were soft and hot and slick, and he was out of his mind.

“God, you’re incredible, Dep.” He grinned and leaned forward to kiss them, but they yanked on his hair, tilting his head back to the stars. 

He felt their breath puffing against his neck, and then their lips on his throat, meandering deliberate kisses over his pulse and across his Adam’s apple. A hand rested on his shoulder, thumb sweeping to the hollow above his collarbone and pressing steadily until he coughed. The pressure vanished instantly, but he felt the points of their teeth close over his neck. They rocked at a merciless pace, slamming hard enough on the downstroke to take him in fully.

He choked, eyes fluttering shut, one arm over their back, clutching them to his chest to get them to slow down, slow down, he wasn’t gonna last long like this. He cupped the side of their face in the other hand, brushing the hair from their eyes and cradling their cheek gently. They faltered, pulling back and staring at him with something like horror.

“Y’okay, dude?” he asked, frowning with concern, hand dropping to their chin and thumb touching the swell of their lower lip. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” they said unconvincingly, then looked away and stood. “This was a mistake. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“Mistake?” he echoed as they got dressed hurriedly. “What—? Did I do something wrong?”

“I can’t do this to you. You deserve—I have to go.”

“Dep, hey—Dep!” He stared after them, baffled, as they tugged on their sneakers and snatched their radio from its resting place beside their pack, and walked off into the trees without saying goodbye.

Fuck. Something was clearly wrong and he couldn’t let them wander around in the dark alone. He scrambled to put his clothes on, swaying a little, and banked the fire before following.

They usually moved through the wilderness like a ghost—it was freaky how quiet they could be, but it came in handy for taking out the odd patrol or perimeter guard. Whatever spooky mojo they had going on wasn’t working now, though, and he followed the steady noise with growing trepidation. He wasn’t used to being the cautious one, and he didn’t like it. 

The treeline broke over a grassy hill, the songs of crickets and frogs and the green smell of a river rising up from its foot. He saw them at the crest of the hill, head bowed to the ground with the radio pressed to their lips. His was silent at his hip; it wasn’t their channel. 

They stood there, staring down at their feet until the strained crush of static acknowledgment blurted from the radio, and then they were on the move again. 

Down the hill, through a thin copse of trees that shushed with the wind, then over a stretch of farmland. Tilled rows full of moonlight, his boots sinking into the soft shadowed earth with every step. He didn’t know what he’d do if they turned around and spotted him, confronted him. He didn’t need to worry, though, because they walked with a single-minded purpose, not bothering to look around. 

There was a house ahead. He didn’t recognize it, but that’s clearly where they were going. No lights on, most of the windows broken out or boarded up—looked like any other place that had been sacked by the Peggies. They trudged up the porch steps and stopped in front of the door, shoulders hunched. He quickened his pace, fighting a growing sense of dread and the certainty that something very bad would happen if he didn’t catch them before they went in that house.

He started to call for them, but heard an engine in the distance and saw the glow of headlights dipping over the hills and cursed, ducking behind the nearest tree. Tires ground over the packed dirt road and slowed as they drew near. The engine cut, a car door slammed, and he heard quick steps over the porch stairs. When he came out into the open again, there was a black car parked in front of the house, and both Rook and the person they were meeting had gone inside.

Well, shit. It didn’t feel good to know they’d rather be fucking someone else, but he’d been rejected before and it always sucked but he could deal with it. He couldn’t dismiss the feeling that something was wrong, though, that he needed to get in there and help them. They could push Nick and Hurk and everyone else away or distract them with excuses and other assignments, but he’d be dead in a ditch somewhere before he let his only friend further down this road. He could see the pattern now, the deliberate isolation, the increasing apathy and disregard for their own physical wellbeing. 

Fuck, he’d been so stupid. This was a spiral, and it had to be stopped.

He went around the back of the house, and tried the door. It was unlocked. 

The kitchen was dark and in disarray, the sickly sweet pungence of decay hanging thick over the shadowed counter. His boots crunched over broken plates. He heard low voices through the ceiling, and headed upstairs.

“—and so soon after last time, too? People will talk.”

He froze on the landing, rage and disgust turning his stomach. He knew that voice.

“Cut the shit. I’m not in the mood for it.” Rook’s voice was dull, resigned and bitter.

“Oh, don’t be like that. It’s boring when you don’t have your claws out.”

“So go. I won’t miss you.”

A laugh. Short, approving, but also mocking. “I wonder what your friends would think of the time we spend here. Together. All the things you ask me to do to you. Do you think they’d cast you aside, even after all you’ve done for them? How would they look at you, I wonder? Which would be worse—the pity, or the revulsion?”

“Don’t talk about them,” they said sharply.

The walls rattled and Sharky flinched, heart in his throat.

“Fine. No more niceties.”

The threat in his voice was obvious, and the pit of Sharky’s stomach dropped. He ran up the last flight of stairs. The door at the end of the hall was ajar, the room within lit by a yellowed flashlight beam, and he saw…he saw them in there. John had them pinned up against the wall, his forearm over their throat and a hand shoved down the front of their jeans. They were scrabbling to untuck his shirt, unbutton his vest, breath coming in harsh, strained gasps.

John laughed, leaning into their flushed face and watching as they grimaced. “So wet for me already, Deputy. Maybe I was wrong about wrath—”

“Just shut up and fuck me,” they choked, glaring at him.

“Fine by me,” he growled, and wrenched their pants down.

Neither had noticed him, so Sharky slipped into the closest room and sank down against the wall. Christ. He wanted to kill him—wanted it so bad the taste of his anger was sour and stifling, pricking at the back of his throat. But he’d left his guns at the campsite, and regardless of how he personally felt about John fucking Seed fucking Rook at all, much less fucking talking to them like fucking that, it sounded like this was a consensual arrangement, and they’d probably be a lot safer without him barging in and making that bastard think something was up.

They’d be okay, they’d be okay, they’d be okay. They had to be okay.

It didn’t help when he could hear thumping from the other room, the small, pained cries that pierced through the walls and the indistinct burr of John Seed’s voice hissing poison in his friend’s ear. He let out a shaky breath, putting his head in his hands and staring at the picks in the dark blue carpet.

Stupid to think they wanted him. Stupid to think he mattered. God, he should have known it was just another way for them to hurt. He’d done it before. Why wouldn’t they? It wasn’t love, because they weren’t looking for love. He’d just been there. A convenient tool, too stupid to know he was being used. 

A bump against the wall behind him and he didn’t dare move.

“—think this buys you salvation? Absolves you of the lives you’ve stolen? This is nothing compared to what awaits you in hell.”

“Don’t—believe—in hell,” they moaned in a voice like death.

A sharp smack, and Sharky’s fingers dug into his scalp.

“Believe it or not, it is coming, Deputy. And when it does? You’ll realize everything you’ve done has been for nothing. Your little show of resistance fruitless beyond comprehension. You’ve saved no one. Doomed hundreds. Every one of your friends will die in fear and agony because of you.”

“Unless we surrender and pledge allegiance to your brother, right?” Their laugh was muffled through the wall, but the bitterness was crystal clear. Then they cried out.

“Too late for them,” panted John. “But you? Sure. You can still join the team. Ask me nicely, and I’ll keep you safe. Fuck you long after the lights go out, and you admit that we were right. That I was right. And when you understand all I’ve done for you, you will love me.”

“I will never love you,” they promised, harsh and gloating, and the resultant thudding was vicious.

Sharky stared at the opposite wall until his vision blurred. When the sun came up, he was burning this place to the ground.

If John came, he did so quietly. For a while there was just the indistinct sounds of heavy breathing, then clothes shuffling, then, tersely:

“Never say never, Deputy. I’ll see you when the world ends.”

John thundered down the stairs, black coat trailing behind him, and slammed the front door as he left. Sharky heard the car engine start, turn, and then the churn of tires pulling out of the gravel drive. The house was still. He willed himself to his feet, trying to think of what he would say, what he could say when he saw them. He’d kind of expected to feel some resentment—he was usually petty in that way, unable to cast aside personal concerns even when confronted with larger problems. But really he just felt…empty. Sad. He was no good at this stuff, and he wished someone else was here, someone who knew how to talk about heavy shit and be gentle and wise and comforting. Like Pastor Jerome. Pastor Jerome would be good at this.

But Pastor Jerome wasn’t here. So he’d just have to do his best and hope it was good enough.

He walked into the hall and froze again at the sound of low, cracked sobs floating out of Rook’s room. But if he didn’t go now, he’d just come up with more excuses to bitch out, because he really wanted to. He wanted to go down the stairs and out the door, quiet where John was loud, and keep walking until he was across the Henbane and back at his trailer. Check if his fridge was still working. Grab the wine, the rest of his weed, go down into his bunker and close the hatch and pretend nothing had ever happened. No cult, no John Seed, no Junior Deputy Rook—just him and the high and his tunes.

But he didn’t waver as he walked to the door, and when he came to it, his hand floated up and pushed at the white painted wood. It didn’t feel like a part of him. Too distant. Dreamlike. 

The door swung open, and he could see them lying on the bed in their underwear, staring up at the ceiling with red eyes.

“Hey Dep,” he said hoarsely, coming in and trying not to look at the cracks in the walls and the fresh bruises on their throat. 

They started, bolting upright and staring at him. Guilt and terror flashed quickly over their face, but after a second, their expression was carefully blank. 

“Are you going to tell?”

He cocked his head, walking to the side of the bed and sitting gingerly. “What, that you’re hate-fucking John Seed, or that you’re suicidal?”

They gave a wet laugh, face crumpling, and ducked their head between their knees as they sobbed. He touched their leg gently, and when they didn’t pull away, he scooted closer to them and hugged them loosely around their shoulders, tucking his chin over their head.

“I’m not sayin’ shit, okay?” he said softly while they shook in his arms. “But uh, even if I did, it wouldn’t matter. Everybody cares about you, you know that, right? Me, Hurk, Grace, Nick an’ Kim, Aunt Addie, Pastor Jerome, Mary May, Casey—Jess talks a lot of shit, but she really likes you. All the Whitetails, and the folks at the prison…you’ve saved us all at least twice over, okay? And we love you.”

“S-s-sorry, Sharky,” they hitched, leaning into him and hiding their face in their hands. “I’m so—so fucking sorry. It feels—it feels like there’s this horrible thing growing inside me, filling me up with, with nothingness…and no matter what I do, it just spreads, and I didn’t want—I didn’t—I didn’t want to infect you.”

“You don’t need to explain.” He rubbed their back while they hiccuped miserably. “Just…tell me when it’s bad, okay? Or—I mean, doesn’t have to be me. Tell someone. You’re a good person, Dep. You’re under a lot of pressure and it’s kind of a shitshow out there, so like…I get it. But you gotta stop comin’ here. This? The kinda shit he says to you? That ain’t helping. You gotta know that.”

They sniffed, nodding. “Yeah…I do. But sometimes…I think I deserve it.”

He scowled. “Fuck no. Nobody deserves that. Okay?”

“…Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” He reached for more words, but couldn’t find any. Their breathing was steadying out, though, so maybe he didn’t need to right now. He just focused on holding them, staring at the strip of lightening sky visible through the fugly polka-dotted curtains. 

They should get some actual rest. Not here, though. This place was fucked. Should make their way back to the camp before Peggie patrols got into full swing. Maybe find a bunker or something so they could both get a solid few hours safely.

But first…

“Hey.” He bumped their head with his chin and they uncurled, blinking swollen eyelids questioningly. “Get the rest of your clothes on. We’re gonna torch this fuckin’ house, alright?”

Slowly, a smile spread across their face, and they nodded.


End file.
